Such Was the Death of Glitter
by dios the whale
Summary: [slash][curt/brian][language][one-shot]This poor scene has been hacked many times and I decided to set out and hack it into even smaller pieces. Enjoy the studio break-up.


A/N: This is what happens when you're bored and you've been reading VG fanfiction for the past day and a half. Don't let this happen to you; horrible things come out of it. Like this story. 

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Disclaimer: I don't own Curt or Brian, which is rather unfortunate, but it's the truth. I was really hoping that you'd never guess. They belong to the wonderful, fabulous, amazingly creative and open-minded producers/directors/creators, as they will be called, since I can't remember specifics, who threw Velvet Goldmine into the world, drunk, high, scandalous, and glittery as could be. Thank you dearly, from yet another fangirl.

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**Such Was the Death of Glitter **

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_duister_

**-- **

So this was what it was like. Darkness. Nothing. Once Curt had crossed the threshold, which from a foot away had looked like it would stretch to infinity, between the doorway and London, it was as if the ground had fallen from beneath his feet. This was what it felt like. To fall. To go blind. To die, even, he supposed. It was looking in front of you and seeing nothing but looking behind and seeing everything you had ever wanted. His body unconsciously following his train of thought, Curt turned, slowly, and looked back. There it was. Still inside that building were all he needed: his love and his hate. He could get drugs and liquor anywhere, but those emotions would never come back. Brian appeared in the window. Curt ran.

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_tenebres_

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As Brian threw the window open and leaned out, a hollow cracking resounded through the relatively empty streets--the window frame. The world was spinning. Brian had the insane idea that if he didn't hang on to that windowsill as best he could some invisible force would pitch him out of it. Which wasn't far from the truth, really. Except for if he fell from the window, it would be his own mind behind the wheel. Love was a strange thing and he didn't pretend to understand it. "Piss off!" He found himself yelling out the window. He had positively no idea what he was yelling at. Truth be told, he didn't know much of what was what anymore. "Go on, then! Back to your wolves; your junkie twerps; your bloody shock treatment! And fuck you, too!" That's when the tears had started their descent.

_-- _

_oscurita_

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Before he knew it, he was falling back to earth from his perch on the moon, the ever-radiant stars blinding him, and then he had landed broken on the ground, slumped against a street lamp somewhere in downtown London. Such was the story of his life. Spinning out of control until he could no longer hold on. And then fate threw him wherever he woke up. He wasn't too confident that he would get out of this particular dream so easily; not unscathed, that was for sure. He could already feel the dull aching, as if he had fallen out of bed during the night.

_-- _

_kurayami_

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He had a strong urge to seep into something. 'Christ, Brian,' he thought to himself, 'you really do think you're a fucking god, don't you?' People can't seep. It was either wishful thinking or lies. He went with the latter, as it felt much more comfortable than wishing. A lie. That's all he was, so of course it would come more naturally. Sure, the former was much less malignant, but lying just felt right. Or wrong, depending on how you looked at it. Now Brian decided on a more tangible urge—two, actually: pulling on his hair and chewing on his nails. Pain. That was what he needed. Pain would get his mind off of things.

_-- _

_acerbus_

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Pain, as he opened his eyes. Pain, as he moved. Pain, as he thought. Everything was excruciating. He forced himself to stand, using the green lamp for support, and swaggered to the edge of the sidewalk. Curt looked back at the recording studio before hailing a cab. Numb. As he waited for the yellow taxi to pull up he glanced at the ground, most confused to find no snow there. Cold. He slumped into the car and continued to throw furtive glances at the studio. "Where to?" asked a trench-coated man who looked to be in his mid twenties—the cabby. "Anywhere but here," was the quiet answer. The cabby looked at his passenger suspiciously. "I can pay; just drive." And that was the end of it. Curt's vision blurred as the car slowly accelerated. Numb, cold, and empty. That's all he was.

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_darkness_

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Brian had found some piece of God in himself and has succeeded to seep into a wall, or at least curl up in a corner. A numb, cold, empty lie. He found himself asking God to make him wake up. His subconscious laughed, finding such an act to be useless, as he had stopped believing in religion of any sort over ten years ago. After a few minutes of constant prayer and occasional insults and threats, Brian found God to be unreliable, as he usually found him to be. He then came to the conclusion that, no, he would never wake up from the glitter or Maxwell Demon. He would simply continue living until death caught up with him. Then again, Death was fairly easily manipulated.

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Neither of them ever awoke.

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A/N: I told you it was horrible. Did you listen? _No_. All of that foreign language in there means "darkness". Can't remember what specific languages they are though. Too tired... Thanks muchly for reading this piece of shit-borne-of-boredom. I hope you all liked it. I hope, I hope, I hope. Long live Brian and Curt, even if they **_did_ **end their sweet little affair. That's okay. I can always wish, wish, wish. Third time's a charm, you know. I'm tired; don't expect me to make sense…ever. G'night.


End file.
